Deceit
by Little Obsessions
Summary: "She looked up to see him at the back of the room, and the tiny nod was all she needed to know that she could get through this, that she could go one day to the confessional but now the only option was deceit." Clarisse can't escape the lies she has to tell. Adult themes, but I don't know if it constitutes an M.
**Author's note:** I never intended to publish this. But I really like it, despite the fact it seems to jar at points. I hope you enjoy it at any rate and, if you'd like, you could leave a review.

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own the characters, but I do lay claim to the (nigh on existent) plot. Everything else belongs to Disney, Meg Cabot and their associates and i gain nothing from writing.

* * *

Sometimes it felt as if she was fracturing, splintering into tiny pieces of herself.

She had lost most of herself along the way – her creativity had fallen away, like the broken edge of a cliff, the minute she was shackled to a huge diamond and the promise of unlimited power. Her innocence had been rolled away with her wedding sheets, and she'd never missed it until long after it had been laundered into oblivion. Her passion had flamed out, somewhere between two sons and the realisation that she had done her bit, she was as good as the filly she was promised as. Her heart had failed too when her son died, her hope with him.

She was only fragments of what she once was. She had come to accept that though, most of the time, but sometimes there were fresh blows that she couldn't quite imagine overcoming. Age, experience, even her oft-quoted wisdom still hadn't furnished her with the ability to believe she would get over these blows, so every time they receded into the past, she was as stunned as the next person that she got back up again.

She was good, if anything, at taking punches and standing up, bloodied, for another round.

Her fingers curled the paper at the bottom right hand corner, and the pad of her finger wore it soft with its constant motion. She had been trying, for days now, to ignore the rising hype surrounding the release of the book. Today, however, _The Genovian Reporter_ had started printing exceptional excerpts in anticipation of the release of the full book, sure to be a 'best seller'.

There were worse things than lies. The truth was worse than lies.

She set the paper aside and took up the letter that Charlotte, silent until now, offered her.

It was an official offer from _Genovia Today_ to 'tell her side of the story'.

She shook her head, crumpled it neatly in her fingers, and let it fall into the waste paper basket.

"Is this what the phone calls were about too, Charlotte?"

The other woman nodded, her efficiency over-clouded by her concern in that moment.

"And?"

"I told them no, obviously."

"Good," she nodded, "That will be all for tonight."

"Your Majesty –" Charlotte began, but Clarisse held up a stalling hand.

"Charlotte, you must understand that I want complete silence, from this palace and my people, about this. You must see to it. Goodnight."

Charlotte gave a half-hearted curtsey and turned to go.

She watched the younger woman go, and where the door fell open she could see Joseph waiting outside, the line of his leather clad shoulder indicating he'd decided he'd pull a double shift.

Of all the suffocating things he was prone to, that was by far the worst.

Trading places with Charlotte, he slipped in, and closed the door. As was his routine he flicked the tiny button on his lapel, cutting him off from the rest of the world.

"I don't want to talk," she said, aware she sounded far curter than she intended, "Before you ask."

He smiled but it was tight, "You don't know what I was going to ask."

"I do," she said quietly, "And unless the question is 'Do you want to be alone?' then the answer is a resounding no."

He bowed lowly.

"Fine Clarisse, you know where I am if you need me."

"I do," she turned to the window, "Thank you."

 **-0-**

She fumbled for the sleeping pills, the label faded and water-damaged, from the back of the medicine cabinet. Despite how rarely she used them now, the physician still insisted he replace them tri-monthly for her. The last two nights they'd been her constant companions in the emptiness of her bed.

She climbed into bed, tossing the sheets to the bottom, and took up the manuscript of the book. The chapters were names; an endless list of countesses, noblewomen and business women and stars and high-class call girls. There had been a strange mix of cruelty and compassion when this had landed, anonymously, in her inbox. Perhaps whoever sent it saw it as fair warning for her, but it may as well have been a grenade. It was a substantial publication, thick and tough in her hands – this one without a final, derogatory cover.

She turned over to the blurb and read the reviews.

"A scandal that only the Renaldi reign could produce…"

"Believable and unbelievable at the same time. These women knew what they were doing…"

"We knew he was a philandered, but never had I imaged a cheat so prolific!"

She chucked it so it skidded across the floor, the pages flourishing up and fanning outward. Tears spilled out from her eyes, onto her cheeks, sliding onto the pillow when she eventually lay down.

Those women _did_ know. So did he.

And so had Clarisse.

 **-0-**

"It's not going away," he simply said, two days later over breakfast.

Mia's cutlery clanked to a stutter over her cereal. Two years ago her mouth might have fallen open like a gulping fish but, now twenty, she was better at controlling it.

She had been terribly neglectful of her granddaughter, and Mia had been skirting around her as if she were dangerous. Rather than answering all the question which must have been whirring through her granddaughter's brain, she'd left them to ferment while she tried to answer her own.

She drew her eyes up from her tea. He was still and calm, his arms crossed in preparation for the bombast about to come.

"What on earth do you mean?"

"Forgive my frankness, Your Majesty," he said delicately, "But you know precisely what I mean. I am not saying this to upset you-"

"Yet it has," she said lowly, then turned to the rest of the staff and barked, "Leave us."

They scurried out.

"He is right grandma," the voice she hadn't expected to join in said suddenly, "It's all over the news, there are specials and documentaries and pages of press coverage. They-"

"Pierre had to get a Swiss Guard escort to shield him from the Italian press today," he interjected suddenly, the tone of his words accusing of her negligence, "This is spiralling out of control."

Her stomach churned with the revelation – her humiliation, her abashment, was easy to come to terms with. Her son's and her granddaughter's was not.

"Fine," she said slowly, as if she was answering from outwith her body, "Fine. I'll draft a statement."

She didn't look at him as she continued:

"Have Charlotte organise a press conference," she directed, aware her coldness was a necessity borne from the fear of the tears which were about to engulf her, "And invite all the major outlets, including the Associated Press."

He stood directly, set his napkin on the chair, and bowing, made to follow her orders.

The door closed and it was just her granddaughter left. Amelia's hand slid onto hers on the table. It was manipulative in its innocence, it would compel her to answer questions as lies.

"Grandma-"

"I suppose you have questions?"

She risked a look at the young woman's face, and it was full of sadness.

"I-"Mia shrugged, "I suppose I do. I know you might not want to answer them."

"It is slander," she said resolutely, and the spark of desire to hold that true was evident in her granddaughter's eyes, "He was faithful to me, and was an absolute servant to his people. This book is an outrage, not to mention a salacious lie."

Ameila's shoulders slouched visibly and her face's tightness lessened, "There we go then. At least it isn't true. The press are so cruel grandma, and they always have been."

She truly believed it, Clarisse could see, and it gave her strength to believe she could make that lie spread out till faith was restored, and the secrets were put to rest again. She gripped Amelia's had, repeating what she always said on those nights when she knew what his absence meant.

"He was a good husband."

Mia leaned forward and kissed her cheek then, ignorant to the splash of tears threatening to spill.

"Want help drafting the-"

She waved her hand, "No, I shall do it alone."

Her granddaughter went then and she was left to her masterpiece.

She settled at the desk and began drafting. She'd written down lots of lies before, so this time would be no more difficult or easier than the last. It would need to be done before one, so Charlotte could have one of the secretaries type it up for edits.

She slid off her wedding rings, and the bracelet that would clank against the desk, as she set to work.

 **-0-**

Despite the innumerable, possibly millions of, times she'd been hounded by the press, the flashing, intense strobing of a press conference or photo call always caught her off guard. The lights blinded her and the incessant click of the cameras made her feel nervous. They were reflecting off the gilding of the ballroom, shattering the serenity of the majestic room so it became mundane and intolerable.

She'd worn a pretty blue dress – reminiscent, the P.R. advisor had told her, of her going away outfit over three decades ago but far more modern – and sensible court shoes and only her wedding rings. Every choice had been calculated and planned by Charlotte and the Press Office and Joseph – even though they wanted her to think _he_ had not been involved. Too much to contend with, knowing the truth, she supposed.

Yet they all did.

The room fell quiet as she stepped up. It was then, as always, her voice threated to desert her and leave her humiliated. It found its way from her gut to her lungs to her larynx, where it snagged at first, but then came out as if there had been no cause for worry at all.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," her breeding dissuaded her fear, each word growing more eloquent and enticing.

She looked up to see him at the back of the room, and the tiny nod was all she needed to know that she could get through this, that she could go one day to the confessional but now the only option was deceit.

"Thank you for joining us this evening. There has been huge speculation in recent weeks," in the front they jostled to get their mics nearer, "Regarding the publication of the tell all book 'The King's Mistresses'. It is fair to say that this publication, and the ensuing media circus, has left me – not to mention my remaining son and granddaughter – terribly distressed. The books speculates the late king – may he rest in peace – had numerous extra-marital affairs," she paused, girded herself in what she knew looked to them like sadness, "This explicit and unfair book smears a man who cannot defend himself, and leaves me to put to rest the rumours. Genovia enjoyed a prosperous, happy and fortunate rule under my husband and never once did he prove himself to be anything more than a gracious, kind and honourable man. I find these accusations both hurtful and, to my knowledge, untrue. These women cited by the author are entitled to tell their stories – true or not – but I am entitled to stand here too and defend the man you loved for many years as your king, and who was a good and honest husband to me."

They waited, breaths bated and hitching and eyes wide, for anything more.

"Thank you. There will be no further questions."

The room was awash with the stabbing lights and jarring questions which broke the spell.

"Your Majesty," one screamed, "You seem very sure!"

"Your Majesty some of the women have sworn to this," another woman, a young reporter from the _Globe_ , added on.

She merely nodded silently at them and passed by them and out of the door, while at the other end Joseph's men held open the double doors which would lead them away. They were already corralling them but it would take time to make them leave; they were persistent. Inviting them in was sometimes the only way, but then it could be impossible to get rid of them.

When inside the interior corridor she slumped into a chair, tore the statement to shreds, and chucked it into the nearest paper basket.

She watched them leave, Shades escorting the final one from within the gates, and they were still asking questions. Joseph was herding them with the force he was infamous for, that glaring silence that invited the cruel jibes.

She sometimes wanted to tell them he read philosophy and poetry and liked classical music, but she couldn't.

She sometimes wanted, even, to tell the truth.

It was growing cold so she bundled herself in a cashmere wrap and changed to flat shoes. When she entered the security rooms, a maze hidden just off the main lobby of the entrance, the silence was near deafening after the scraping of hesitant chairs and the cessation of curses. She had to speak first, but these men pitied her and that turned her very stomach.

"Colonel," she didn't even look at him as he perched on a desk in the centre of the room, "I want to walk. I would like you to accompany me."

He merely nodded then turned to the others.

"Secure perimeter, double check the military at the front, and can you make sure the log is done for today Shades?"

"Yes sir."

He followed her out into the quiet of the lobby, and then they doubled back through the now silent ballroom. The household staff were clearing the coffee cups and chairs and detritus away.

"Messy people, aren't they?"

He nodded, falling into step beside her, "In all senses of the word."

She agreed and continued on, not stopping until they were a substantial distance from the palace. There was the hum of crickets and though cold, the summer was a scent in the air, coaxing her roses to shy blooming.

She settled on a bench and he sat beside her, his cologne mingling with the air too.

"He used to leave my bed before I woke. Every time. He never wanted to be there in the morning."

The revelation was as shocking to hear for her as it evidently was for him.

"He didn't leave those women's beds," she continued, tightening her own hands in her lap, "He was so…bloody boring. Honestly, in bed. I wanted it to be over so quickly. He had no idea what I wanted. He never asked."

He wasn't blushing, she could see, even in this dim light. She felt cheated. These women made him out as a spectacular lover. She remember nothing but slobbering and unskilled hands.

"Well God knows what they saw in him then," he said softly.

She laughed bitterly.

"Power, privilege, attention…" she murmured, "All the things I didn't want."

He nodded, "I didn't think you wanted to talk about it."

"I don't," she continued, "But here I am, compelled to tell you. He never even asked me, Joseph, what I wanted. I was married to him for thirty years, and he never even asked me how it felt. He must have thought I was such a bloody mannequin. Just lying there."

"Well he was always more interested in the show than the content," he said bluntly.

She laughed again, and his dark humour somehow contented her more than anything else could.

"You feel cheated, don't you?"

The tone was almost one of envy and she realised, for the first time, how this must churn up jealousy in the very fibres of him, in a potent froth.

"I suppose I do, yes. Have you read it?"

"Truth?"

"Always."

"Yes," he nodded, "I have read it. Casanova Rupert, huh?"

She snorted derisively, "Apparently so."

There was silence then, and they both tilted their heads up to look at the stars. The hum of the crickets lulled her, and his steady breathing beside her.

"I hate that I'm still jumping to his defence," she whispered to the stars, and to him, "I loathe my compunction to lie for him. He's still making a fool of me. He was my best friend Joseph, but he was such a disaster, and I'm still picking up the pieces. Here I am, putting myself on display to the world to lie about something we all know he did."

He was looking at her but she couldn't bring herself to look at him.

"I felt violated every time. Every whisper, every accusation, every woman who ever looked at him with those eyes, was a violation. He used to pay them off, you know, and tell me. Of course you know. You delivered the money sometimes, and you took them to the doctors sometimes, and you enforced their silence sometimes too. He used to tell me casually, not really meaning it to hurt. It was like someone undressing me publically, in front of a vast crowd, every time. I was a useless wife – I couldn't keep his interests. That kills me, still."

She felt tears tracking onto her face, and then she shook her head.

"I lied to Amelia. Told her it was all false."

He scooted nearer her, but not near enough that they were touching.

"You know she will have formed her own opinion, and she wouldn't want to hurt you for the world. Let her believe what she believes. Her grandfather's history has nothing to do with her."

She felt her head nodding. And they sat in silence, her sudden misery flooding from her body and tumbling into the summer air. After a while of silence, he scooted near her still.

"Clarisse?"

His voice was unsteady as he spoke.

"Joseph?"

"It's different with me, isn't it?"

She merely smiled.

 **-0-**

The next morning she rolled over and slid her arm across his chest. Her body ached. She had work to do, but she'd learned slowly not to care. His coaxing and encouragement and love had taught her not to care. She looked at the alarm, then his cell phone, and knew he'd have set an alarm anyway. He stirred lightly, the covers crumpling up under his arm as he stretched out and wrapped one around her. She placed her cheek against his heart, listened for the steady rhythm of him. She smelled of his cologne. She could hear, if she listened closely, the echoes of her murmurs of pleasure from hours before.

She'd not known herself capable of such visceral, breathy notes until she'd finally given into him in San Francisco. He'd covered her mouth gently as he moved over her on her bed in the consulate, frightened the guards would hear as she bit her scream into his palm. She didn't want to tell him they wouldn't recognise the sound anyway.

He opened one eye and placed a kiss on her forehead, then settled down further into the pillow.

"I am still here. In your bed. It's the morning."

"Yes," she closed her eyes, "That is why it's different."

* * *

So, what did you think?


End file.
